


The Stars Were All Aligned

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fatherhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Neal would always share a bond, even when time and an ocean separated them. Post series fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stars Were All Aligned

     The first postcard arrived six months after Peter had made that momentous discovery in a storage locker. It had a pale French stamp and was just a generic, touristy view of the Champs-Elysees in all its splendor. There was nothing written on the back.

     Little Neal had just taken his initial tenuous steps at the end of his first year, so Peter would always remember the date. It had also been six months since Peter had transported all that stored evidence to a nearby landfill with determined tenacity. It seemed that it would always be his task in life to protect Neal Caffrey.

     When little Neal broke out in a hot roseola rash at age 18 months, there was another unsigned postcard of the Eifel Tower delivered in the mail. Peter looked at it with eyes that were bloodshot from rocking a fussy and feverish child all night.

     When little Neal was two years old and actually stringing words together to make an abbreviated sentence of sorts, Peter got the first strange email dated December 24, 2016. It had come from a mysterious unknown sender whose handle was _I.M.Lazarus._ The sentiment was brief.

     _“Now maybe you can send me a picture of the boy under the Christmas tree.”_

     After the holidays, Peter had gone off-book by enlisting the aid of a known FBI hacker to track down where the email had originated. The guy was good, but couldn’t pinpoint anything. He said that the trail had been rerouted at least a dozen times off satellites and servers in Lichtenstein, the Netherlands, Moldova, and on and on. So, what was Peter to do but send a jpeg of his son sitting under the tree amongst a mountain of tattered and torn wrapping paper.

     Lazarus responded quickly. _“Good job, Buddy! Thank God he takes after Elizabeth and not his ‘old’ man.”_

     To which Peter quickly answered, _“You can snark all you want, but maybe one day I’ll get to see what you can produce, and then we’ll decide who is the better man!”_

     Almost another year went by without any contact from Lazarus. Peter began to fret that something had happened, and he could not put that worry to bed. He thought about initiating a response, but wasn’t sure that was wise. He did not want to compromise the safety of his new virtual pen pal. He breathed a sigh of relief when another message arrived in his laptop mailbox dated December 2017.

     _“I just undertook the greatest heist of my life, old friend, and it scared me to death! I actually stole a young girl’s heart and made her my wife.”_

Peter found himself smiling from ear to ear and furiously typing, _“More info—now!”_

Almost immediately, Peter’s AOL account pinged signaling new mail.

     _“Déjà vu, G-Man, you always were impatient and bossy! To put it briefly, I really don’t deserve Celeste; I haven’t earned the right to be this happy. But I’m going to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and live in the moment.”_

 _“El and I would have come if you had asked,”_ Peter typed out.

     There was a few minutes lull as if the far-away writer was trying to choose the right words.

     “ _I know that you would have crossed the ocean, but that would have been too dangerous for you. Anyway, it was a very small affair. A certain oenophile was my best man and provided the liquid refreshments. He’s now quite the wine aficionado with his own vineyard in Provence.”_

Peter didn’t know what else to say. This was their pattern—always trying to protect each other. So, he ended the back and forth with, “ _I’m very happy for you.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     It did not take another year for the next email to arrive; it took exactly nine months. On a Saturday in September of 2018, Lazarus made contact. There were no written words, just an attachment. When Peter opened it, he found himself gazing at the tiny, elfin face of an infant in a pink dress with ridiculously intricate bows. She had a thick head of dark, spiky hair and wide aquamarine eyes. Across the picture, Peter could just make out the tiny elegant script—“ _Noelle, the new woman in my life.”_

 _“Good job!”_ Peter typed, a smile once again on his lips. _“I guess we’ll just have to call our ‘procreating prowess’ competition a draw.”_

     The years began to fly by, as they always seem to do. Pictures of the children were routinely exchanged. In 2022, Lazarus sent one of Noelle in a pink tutu in a classic en pointe pose. He included the lament, _“Recitals have become the new art in my life.”_

     Peter sent a jpeg of his own—his Neal at 8 years old togged out in a team jersey and baseball cap.

     Lazarus had emailed: _“Destined for the majors one day like his Dad?”_

Peter responded quickly, and Lazarus could almost hear the regret in the tone of the written words.

     “ _He prefers Legos to baseballs, so I doubt any scouts will be knocking on our door.”_

~~~~~~~~~~

     The correspondence sometimes contained messages of a more serious nature—a frightened person’s attempt to reach out, desperate for an affirmation of hope and support. This one was dated 2026.

     _“El’s biopsy results were not what we were hoping for, but the prognosis is good. It’s so imperative to catch breast cancer early. Now it’s surgery and radiation. She’s so brave, but I’m scared to death.”_

Lazarus fired right back. _“I’ll catch the next plane!”_

     Peter’s response: “ _NO! I do not want to worry about your wellbeing, too. I’ll keep you in the loop.”_

Lazarus _: “You need to take up religion again, my friend. No more lapsed Catholic. Start praying!”_

Peter did not think that his former partner was a devout man, at least not when they had worked together. Therefore, he asked the question.

     _“When did you start praying?”_

Lazarus’ answer was surprising. _“The day that Noelle was born.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     The coming years ushered in more milestones. El reached that all-important benchmark of being cancer–free for five years. Down the road, she and Peter watched their son matriculate through Columbia’s School of Engineering. Now he wanted to design buildings with glass and I-beams rather than plastic Legos. Eventually, Peter quietly retired from the FBI.

     Apparently, Lazarus’ daughter had inherited her father’s artistic genius because, as a mature young woman, she had hung up her ballet shoes and chose paintbrushes and oils instead. She studied her vocation at the prestigious École des Beaux-Arts in Paris, and was extremely talented. Patrons routinely sponsored expositions of her work in respected galleries. Now she was ready to try her wings and leave the nest, at least temporarily.

     She begged her protective and ambivalent parents to let her travel to New York City. A representative of the Tilton Gallery on the Upper East Side had seen her work when he was in Paris. The Tilton prided itself for discovering and promoting cutting edge, emerging artists from around the world. For more than three decades, the gallery had exhibited hundreds of contemporary artists, many of whom had become prominent figures on the international stage.

     A June 2038 email arrived from Lazarus: _“If we let her come, will you watch over her and keep her safe, old friend? I know all the pitfalls for an innocent girl like Noelle in the big city. I was one of those perils once upon a time.”_

Peter was reassuring. _“No worries. I will protect her from the likes of ne’er-do-wells like her father. You know this is karmic payback, right?”_

~~~~~~~~~~

     A few months later, the emails flew across the Atlantic, fast and furiously.

     _“How could you have let this happen?!!!”_ Lazarus demanded. Peter could just imagine the outrage in the words.

     “ _Not my fault.”_ Peter wrote back meekly.

     Lazarus certainly was not done. _“Again, I’m asking you—how did it get to this point?”_

     Peter refused to let himself be bullied. “ _The old fashioned way, you idiot! Boy meets girl, both become besotted, and they decide that they want to spend the rest of their lives together.”_

Apparently, Lazarus was still fuming.

_“Well, he should have asked her mother’s and my permission. If you had raised him the right way, that’s what he would have done! I want to know that his intentions are honorable.”_

_“Blah, blah, blah … Get with the program, you antiquated old fart,”_ Peter pecked out on the keyboard _. “When did you ever ask permission to do anything that you wanted to do?”_

Lazarus was quick with a retort. _“Don’t throw that in my face, you archaic old fossil. Celeste and I need to meet your son, right here, on our home turf.”_

Peter sighed to himself and rolled his eyes.

     _“Just calm down and don’t do anything stupid. He will be accompanying her home to Paris after her showing closes in two weeks. And, by the way, he really does not need your stamp of approval. Your daughter loves him, and that’s that!  In case you’re interested, El and I love her, too.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     On a beautiful spring afternoon six months later, a small, rustic chapel in Provence was adorned with white lilies of the valley, lavender, and freesia. A string trio sat quietly in the vestibule awaiting their cue. Majestic, white tents had sprung up in the adjacent courtyard, and under the canvas a short, bald and fussy vintner was making sure that the white wine and the foie gras were properly chilled, and the delicate sprigs of dill adorning the canapés were arranged artistically. He had exacting standards for his goddaughter’s wedding.

     On that beautiful spring afternoon, two friends who had inexplicably bonded a lifetime ago, met again after over two decades. Both were older and grayer but the tie was still present, even stronger now as it became blended and interwoven into the next generation. However, there was one thing that was different. Their dynamic had changed a bit, because for once, Neal was not stealing something priceless. For the very first time, he was giving it away.


End file.
